But there was no need to tell him. All the time he had been shaking hands he had been looking over Walter's shoulder at Yetta. His face went pale and rigid. He stiffened up perceptibly.
"I'm glad," he said slowly, looking squarely at Walter, "if you can make her happier than I could. I love her, too."
The words seemed to Walter like a challenge. For a second or two their eyes met. He was the first to look away. He could not meet the younger man's directness.
"Walter," Isadore said, "you're my best friend. Be good to her."
He hesitated a moment, irresolute, then turned abruptly and went away. Walter stood still in the middle of the room—dazed by the intensity of Isadore's emotions, realizing suddenly how many more of the priceless gifts of Youth there were in Isadore's hands than in his own. The shame which had flooded him at Yetta's first caress came back. Yetta, in her infatuation, could not see how little—even of love—he had to offer. She was too blinded to choose freely.
"Yetta," he said, coming over and sitting on the other end of the window-seat from her, "why didn't you tell me about this?"
"Why, Walter, I did tell you. I said he asked me to marry him—two years ago."
"But I didn't realize that he loved you as much as this."
"Walter," she said, taking fright at his tone, "I never gave him any encouragement. I never—"
"It isn't that, Yetta," he interrupted her. "Oh! I don't mean that. But why didn't you marry him?"